Clubbing
by phfina
Summary: Chapter 4: Alice just had to put me on the cover of this month's Vogue, didn't she?
1. Itinerary

**Story Summary: **How much can Rosalie Hale hate that nothing slip of a girl named Bella Swan? Hm, I believe the phrase "a lot" would earn me the "Understatement Award of the Year." Well, good thing Rosalie is the zenith of objectivity and equanimity. Just ask her.

**Chapter Summary**: First Edward has to expose us all to save that human mouse of a girl from that van, and now Alice wants to "chat"? About her soon to be "BFF"? What else could go wrong? Well, at least we're going to NYC, so it can't be all that bad … can it?

**Setting**: Occurs the weekend following "Phenomenon," ch 3 _Twilight/Midnight Sun._ January 28-30, 2005.

* * *

I can't believe this. I just can't believe this.

It was bad enough that Edward had to expose us all with his heroic stunt by throwing himself in front of Tyler Crowley's van, leaving an oh-so-perfect Edward imprint on its side that who had to cover? Edward? Responsible Edward? No. Emmett had to cover.

But then, it got better. Did Edward break her little sparrow neck after seeing that she saw everything? I mean, it would have been so easy: he could have just leaned against her such that her vehicle (that heap can't be a truck, can it?) would snap that Swan's neck of hers. But did he do this? No. He had to _ride to the hospital in the ambulance with her!_ And for what purpose? To hold her hand? To gaze into her eyes? To go for a _lip-lock?_

Well, at least Edward has finally found a girl desperate enough to overlook his complete lack of personality. Or, actually, he does have a personality …

Is 'assholeinity' a word?

_But then_ when I tried to talk reason into those imbeciles who dare to call themselves a 'vampire family' (have they no shame?), what do they decide to do?

'Oh, Rosalie, you're overreacting …' Yeah? _Bullshit!_ '… the human girl told Edward she wouldn't say anything, and if Edward says …'

That's what always fucking happens. 'If Edward says …' If Edward says 'boo,' all the other Cullens just fall right in line behind him, marching over the cliff's edge, drinking the Kool-Aid and calling it champagne, for goodness sake!

And can it get worse from there?

It did. Because right after that 'meeting' — _meeting?_ More like: Edward/Alice-browbeating-session! — what does Eddiekins do? He runs right off to hunt? No, he runs right off to stalk the little human that he has 'no feelings for whatsoever'!

_God!_ Edward _drooling_ over that brown-brown slip of a 'girl'? I mean, is she even a girl? She looks more like a pre-teen boy than anything else! How old is she anyway? Eight? _Six?_ Has she even had her first period yet? And, if she has, could she have it during biology lab with Edward, please? The ensuing bloodbath would be less conspicuous than what _'Here I come to save the day!' _Edward-Do-Right did in the school parking lot!

But it gets better!

Because the very next day in school, does Edward cover our tracks at all? Does he say: 'I think she hit her head pretty hard. She was babbling complete nonsense. I won't be surprised if she dies in the hospital or spends the rest of her life a mental retard …'

But does he say this at all?

_NO!_

The buzz in the lunch room was 'Oh, Cullen saved Bella, and she's just fine and he's really worried about her. Hey, Jess, you ever see Cullen so crushing on a girl like that?'

Which was entirely mystifying for me in the first place. I mean: 'crushing' on this girl? What was there to crush on? I mean, it's not that she wasn't a mental retard to begin with … I mean, the most eloquent thing I've heard her say so far is … hm, actually nothing comes to mind except 'duh,' and that's not all that eloquent upon reflection …

I would actually be doing the world a service by eliminating that girl. I mean, she's obviously unloved by her mother who is remarried and who wants some time with her new husband away from a whining clingy teenaged girl who acts like a three-year-old. And nobody with any sense likes her at all here in Forks.

Not that you'd find anybody in Forks with any sense in their heads. I mean, really! Edward? Jessica Stanley? Michael Newton?

_Please!_

Well, there is Alice. And I thought there were some brains in her head, although the elevator doesn't always go to the top floor. I mean, if you look at it, vampires with gifts usually need them to compensate for lacking ability or capacity elsewhere.

Case in point: Edward Cullen, AKA Stupid-head.

I mean, the reason that he can hear everybody else's thoughts is because his head would be vacuous otherwise.

Edward Cullen, AKA America's Oldest Virgin.

Which is probably why he's crushing on the girl. She isn't hard on the eyes — I'll grant her that, that is, if she learned to _fucking put on some clothes that didn't scream grunge!_ — and _her_ own eyes have been doing _nothing_ if not communicating with Edward the whole time. I mean: that's why that little ditz didn't get out of the way of the van, because she was so busy giving Edward the 'fuck me' look that she probably would have missed the ground if she tripped like she so conveniently does whenever her spider sense tingles telling her Edward is looking at her.

Which would be all the time.

Totally mystifying: the both of them. And that would be fine, except for the fact that she's _human._ And humans do one thing: avoid us. But not this one. Jessica Stanley got the message when she approached Edward back in ninth grade. She got it right from the horse's, or Edward's, mouth, and my little dig afterward in the locker room of: 'he's out of your league, sweetheart' cemented the message.

You should have seen her bawl to her mommy the rest of that week.

Spineless pussy.

And slut. Because next thing you know, she's following around that Newton puppy-dog.

At least she learned her lesson and stayed with her own kind.

But this Bella.

Hm. There's one who hasn't learned her lessons. I mean, I marked it, clear as day — or as night, in our case — we walked in the school cafeteria and there was the new girl and she looked at us …

… and she connected all the dots.

_She knows._

She maybe doesn't know what we are exactly, but she knew from the first minute that we are _other._ And unlike the rest of humanity that put that thought aside and got on with their empty and meaningless lives, she pondered this in her heart and turned it over in her mind. I saw her do that in the cafeteria, and I saw her put it all together when the van didn't put her together with her truck like it should have.

_She knows._ And we know. We know the rule. The one rule: humanity must not know, and any who do must die. I didn't make this rule, but I know its there for good reason. Once the rabble are alerted to something out of the humdrum they become restless and uneasy.

This meant a culling in the past, and the Volturi would orchestrate something to have that done. But now, in this modern day and age with this modern media and with these modern weapons, … well, a rabble rousing is not so easily dismissed, destroyed nor silenced.

Bella Swan is trouble.

Bella Swan _must_ die.

Anybody with any brains in their head would see this. So I entirely expected smitten Edward to miss this vital consequence of logic, but I thought I need merely present the facts and let the matter be handled.

What I didn't expect is _how_ it was handled. But with Edward working one side of the table with Alice working the other, all that was left was me looking aghast.

I have to hand it to those Bobbsey Twins: they sure know how to run the table.

_Well, fine!_ So let the Volturi come and destroy us all! I warned them! When we're all a big pile of ash, _then_ they'll bemoan their fate and say, 'Oh, we should have listened to Rosalie!' but then it will be _too late!_

Just as it always happened when I warned the family of any …

Silent footsteps by my door, preceded by Alice's valencia scent, and then followed by the rasping sound of paper sliding under my door.

Alice's footsteps retreated.

I sat at my vanity, combing my hair, as is my wont when I'm thinking, and I debated with myself whether I should debate with myself how long I should wait before investigating that paper. I knew I would look at it eventually, so it was positioning then. I can't have Alice know that I'm at all interested in her latest scheme by getting up instantly, can I?

But then, since I'm going to look, anyway …

I sighed, put my brush down and went to the door, looking down at the paper.

It was an itinerary: a chartered jet to New York City, … departing tonight.

I sighed. If Alice thought she could buy my good will so easily …

Okay, I'd go, but _I refuse to enjoy it!_

Well, I try not to enjoy it too much, anyway. But that Alice is going to get a piece of my mind away from the boys. I'd enjoy that part.

A lot.

… Hm, and, well, there's the shopping. And what to wear? What to wear? Finally I'd get to give up pretending to be a silly teen in high school wearing silly teen clothes and really wear something to knock them all dead! Hm. Velvet? Leather? A silk gown? _And the shoes! _In NYC at night you could take the subway, dressed to the nines and not even get a second look.

I turned from the paper on the floor and headed toward my closet.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

[1] So, do you recall in my story "Our First Time" how Rosalie admitted to Bella that she hated her … a lot? (right there in chapter 4 when Bella makes a ... request to Rosalie). So, are you getting the vibe from this story that when Rosalie said she hated Bella a lot, she _meant_ it? Isn't Rosie-toesies so cute hating on the new girl in school whose only crime is _not_ getting crushed by Tyler's van? Ever notice how sometimes somebody, well, not you, but one of your friends hates on so much later becomes their … well, you hear them say "God! I hate her so much, I just wanna snuggle with her and kiss her all over!" And you're like: "Bha-what?" _Of course_ they don't say that, but maybe they aren't even aware they want that until you see them holding hands and then you're all like: "Aw, _so cute!"_ Well, so that's _Twilight_ in a nutshell (well, the Real _Twilight)_ and so this story came from Rosalie's comment to Bella (that she hated her) and was sketched in ch 7 of "Our First Time."

Um, please don't mention to Rosalie that I may have hinted that her toesies are rosies. I mean "Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. For Moses, he knowses his toeses aren't roses, as Moses supposes his toeses to be." And I make no claim as to what Rosalie thinks about her toeses … I mean _toes_ … or that she even thinks about her toes much at all.

Now, Bella … well, she thinks quite a bit about Rosalie's, and I quote, 'cute toes' but that's another story entirely, and not even mine, and in much need of updating (hint-hint, somebody reading this note, hint-hint, we love you, bb, plz update soon, huh?)


	2. Fifth Avenue

**Chapter summary:** Everybody thinks Alice is the shop-queen, well, I have a thing to say about that, too. Nothing like dropping a few bills to soothe the nerves. But wait … Ooh! That little manipulator Alice! She _planned this! _Now she's really going to get it!

* * *

The flight was uneventful, and that's because I chose a separate seat from Alice. It would have been eventful if we did sit near each other, because the conversation would escalate to the point where I'd have to throw Alice through the hull, and at the learjet's cruising altitude of twelve thousand meters that wouldn't hurt Alice — she'd just reach terminal velocity and leave a crater in some stupid farmer's cornfield … it would piss her off, however, as she'd have to raid clothes from some homestead in middle America (oh, the shame for Designer Alice!) — but then the instant decompression in the plane would probably kill the stewardesses as they were sucked out into the near vacuum, and the pilot and copilot would have to redirect to a highway for an emergency landing, leading to all sorts of questions.

I hate it when people ask me questions.

So I chose instead to sit apart from my dear chipper sister and read some romantic drivel like _Sense and Sensibility_ or some such nonsense. I can't believe anyone would waste their time reading such foolishness.

But it did help disappear the bulk of the flight, and if the silence was uncomfortable between us siblings, at least it was filled.

I did read Ibsen's _Hedda Gabler _after that to clear my head. Now that's reality. Anybody who reads the romantics like that Edwardian Austen or the Victorian Charles Dickens should free their minds with a healthy dosage of either the Greek tragedies or Kafka or maybe even Goethe.

I could see that going over well at Forks High School, however: _First, learn German, then read Goethe's poetry._

_"Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn?"_

What? That was part of my formal education: every young girl's education included French and German … and aren't people of this 'modern era' supposed to be more advanced and educated than the people of my age? Learning German should be a snap then, if the people of today are so far superior to my contemporaries.

But one cannot discuss such things with children of these days, because they are too busy 'texting their friendies' about their latest 'u-tube vid' … whatever the Hell that means.

But these thoughts left me after we deplaned and were whisked away by the limo. Of course, with Alice, we had to shop, and, of course, we had to go to Barneys New York first and then Henri Bendel.

Alice loves her edginess. And she loves seeing her work on display.

But then she went for softening me up, because next up: Madison Avenue.

Okay, her softening up worked a bit.

And then it worked a bit more when we ended up at Bergdorf Goodman.

They love me at Bergdorf Goodman. And they love making me use my expense account.

But there were some new Diane von Furstenberg dresses I simply had to have. I pointed. 'Oh, I like that one,' I said, causing the assistants to fly to the racks, and I got to try each of them. I got to try all of them, actually.

Alice may be known as a shopper, but at Bergdorf Goodman, Rosalie Hale is known as a _buyer._

After that, and after my new acquisitions were boxed and appropriately labeled and disposed for shipping, Alice and I decided to indulge a bit.

Now, everybody goes to Tiffany's, and I'm sure that's so romantic with the song and the movie, but Alice and I have a little secret place we go to not far from there and much more intimate: Van Cleef & Arpels. We bought our husbands timepieces: Alice bought Jasper a Féérie watch, undoubtably to remind her husband of the little fairy he married, not that he needed the reminder, and I bought Emmett a manly Latérale. Maybe this watch would last him longer than the last one, but you just can't spike the medicine ball as if you were playing volleyball and expect things not to break. I don't know how many times I have to tell that big lug, but my Emmett does like to demonstrate his prowess, doesn't he?

Then we bought gifts for ourselves. Alice selected an amber butterfly necklace and I myself looked at the Organdi, but the problem with diamonds is that they may be a girl's best friend, but if that girl is a vampire, they don't stand out against our chalk-white 'skin.' I then looked at the Farandole Necklace, but it was emerald-themed — not so much to my taste — there were several ruby pieces that caught my eye.

I do so love red.

Alice kept her patience with my selection, the dear, but she could do that: vampires don't get tired on their feet. And it was she that suggested they commission a piece for me like the Farandole but with rubies as the settings instead of the pear-cut emeralds.

Now this was a happy compromise. Smiles all around (mine closed-lipped, I didn't wish the scare the poor humans to death before they completed the work), and we had a resetting of the ruby blossoms from the magnolia rings for _my_ new necklace.

That Emmett would give to me.

So thoughtful of our husbands to give us these perfect gifts, and the note inside, written in Emmett's hand: "For Rosalie, beauty for my beauty, Emmett" … ?

You couldn't ask for better. Our husbands could be so solicitous when we picked, wrapped, and shipped the gifts that they would (eventually) give to us.

Being partners to a billion dollar hedge fund does have its perks, but _noblesse oblige:_ _somebody _had to keep this depressed economy going, so I was doing my part to help out by buying these luxuries.

Alice browsed a bit more and even bought me a gift, a dragonfly hair clip of pink sapphires. I tried not to look pleased, but then she also bought another clip of blue sapphires.

Given her unmanageable spiky-short hair, that couldn't be for herself, nor for Jasper.

"Are you getting that for Esme?" I asked curiously, and admired her thoughtfulness.

But blue just didn't work with Esme: caramel-colored hair and yellow eyes? Besides which, Esme didn't like to pin her hair back as Carlisle always admired her long brown wavy locks.

Instead of answering, Alice just smiled a private smile.

Alice is just so mysterious, isn't she?

By the time we finished there, you could say it was pitch black outside, because that's how it would be anywhere else in the the world, but this was Fifth Avenue in the city that never sleeps. There was vibrancy, life, and light in the air, and the feeling was electric.

Alice turned to me and beamed. "Shall we go clubbing, sister dear?" she asked, all chummy.

I responded coolly: "I suppose…" and added a martyred, "if we must."

I didn't want to let on that Alice's shopping plan had worked: my mood had improved.

I'm not happy about that. I'd been manipulated by the manipulator.

I had to hand it to her: Alice worked hard at suppressing her victorious smile. And we took our time, walking slowly (for us) here and there through the avenues and streets of the city, letting its electricity seemingly pulsing in the very air vibrate through us.

We finally ended up back on Fifth Avenue at a place called "Ginger's Bar."

Alice looked at me cautiously. "How about this, Rosalie; shall we give this place a try?"

I looked at the façade: there was an outdoor patio and the clientele were mostly women. Must be "Ladies' Night." Good. That means I would be less likely to be hit on by some drunken idiot smelling of Scotch.

Royce's drink.

I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly at Alice and offered a disinterested "Sure."

We hadn't been to this place before, but Alice was always trying new places, so nothing seemed out of line.

Or so I thought.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

[1] Recall from the canon that, _ahem_, somebody looks really good in blue? I wonder whom Alice chose that blue dragonfly hair pin for? And if she'll wear it to prom?

[2] Now I feel a little bit like Bella. I mean, if I were invited to shopping with those two and Alice would say, "Here, try this on"? And as I'm blushing to death wearing a diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet asking how much it is because there's no price tags anywhere, and Rosalie's like, _"Excuse me,_ isn't it rude to ask about the cost of a gift?" And then I'd be _doubly_ embarrassed and say I couldn't accept something that has a value matching the GNP of more than a few countries and they'd be like, "Well, tough, because this is just the first gift in the first store, and …" Well, I'd so feel like Bella because how could I possibly give them anything back as a gift without borrowing money from them or refinancing what? Going for my Ph.D. and instead of taking classes use the entire school loan as the first down payment?

So, just now, I finally got how hard it must have been for Bella, who can't afford to buy clothes or even a heap of a truck or barely even spare parts for a dirt bike having to accept gift after gift from the Cullens and having no way to give anything back but herself. And if she's anything like me (or I'm anything like her), then just feeling so inadequate in the face of all that brilliance and beauty.

God, Bella's so amazing and so strong, just standing for herself, being just who she is in the presence of all that magnificence. Do you see how taken for granted the Cullens have in relation to their massive wealth? And how perplexed they are with Bella that she keeps refusing little gifts that mean absolutely nothing other than an expression of their friendship and love? But now I finally see it from Bella's eyes. I live in a flat and work at sbux. If I were jetted off to NYC and told 'Oh, we don't go to Tiffany's … we prefer a place that's a bit more exclusive' and then being ushered into a private viewing room? How often did that happen for me last week? Would I be cowed by such ease around such privilege? Yes. But Bella wasn't: she let them be who they are, who they've always been, but also demanded they take her as she is, _and_ take her as an equal.

_*Shakes head*_ You go, Bella.

[3] Alice and Rosalie like to go clubbing. They do a bit of people watching, 'living' a bit vicariously through the lives of still living people out at the club to have some fun. So Alice invited Rosalie to "Ginger's Bar" because those two go clubbing. Nothing unusual in that invite. Nothing at all. La-di-dah.


	3. Bloody Bella

**Chapter summary:** _Cutting me off?_ Baby, nobody cuts me off. When I have a good proper sulk to sulk, I like to have that sulk in peace, and what I _don't like_ is to have people telling me what I need to do. The night may be young, but for you it just ended.

* * *

The bartender's name was Yvette.

Or should it be the 'bartender_ess' _Yvette?

She had one huge strike going against her as she looked a bit like a girl who should have been a Fork High School Parking Lot pancake but wasn't.

Yes, she had taken (much) better care of her hair (she had the waves curled), her face was more aquiline, less heart-shaped, her skin was darker, being tanned, and she was a bit taller.

And she was a whole lot more self-possessed, in that friendly and professional way bartenders are. And more intelligent, she at least knew how to speak English, which so far that Bella Swan had yet to prove. And she was engaging and friendly.

Maybe Bella Swan should come to this bar. It'd do her good, build her confidence, because this place was _packed_ and _happening._ _And_ not a meat market: the place was mostly populated with women of all shapes and sizes. It was neither Beverly Hills, 90210 nor was it Coal Miner's Daughter. And the women ranged across the spectrum of confidence, some seemed comfortable on the dance floor, one with a not-so-pleasant voice was hogging the mic of the karaoke machine and there were four girls playing what appeared to be a serious game of pool. There were girls by themselves texting imaginary friends and there were a smattering of guys, drinking and looking, but not predatorily.

In fact, there was a heavy-set guy in denim and a leather vest — his look shouted 'trucker' — nursing a beer, sitting on a barstool that seems to have been … well, shaped to his contours.

A regular, it appears.

Whatever.

Well, the bartender(ess?) Yvette and I didn't hit it off so well at first.

I don't know what her problem is. Usually when I slide the hundred dollar bill across bar to the tender and say 'You mind your business and I'll mind mine' they get the message and are pleased as punch to serve me the single glass of club soda. They don't care that I don't touch the drink, because I paid them up front not to care. Just stand over there, smile pleasantly when I glance your way, and leave me the Hell alone.

This worked especially well in New York. They appreciated directness when it came to what you wanted and what they got out of it. People say we New Yorkers are assholes. That's just wrong: we just cut through the bullshit that everybody else masquerades as 'politeness' to get right to the point.

So maybe it was my fault that this didn't work out so well, because I did alter my routine a tad, instead of ordering the usual club soda, I ordered this.

I said: "I'll have a Bloody Bella."

Alice put her head into her hands and murmured: "Oh, brother, here we go."

_That's right, little sister,_ I thought disdainfully in Alice's direction, _so buckle your seat belts, because there's turbulence ahead._ Of course, Alice isn't the stupid-head mind-reader of the family, so she couldn't scan my thoughts.

Ask me if I care.

Yvette blinked at my order, and it looked like she was going to correct me, but my death glare didn't leave room for correction.

Alice lifted her head and ordered, too: "… and two club sodas, one for me and one for the pissy blond."

I didn't bother to tell Alice that this was going to be my first of many Bloody Bellas, … hm, maybe I could extend the binge to tomorrow and have myself the real thing.

Yvette brought me my drink. I put my hand on the glass.

Alice put her hand on top of mine: "Rosalie, …" she began.

I looked down at her hand, then I glared into her eyes.

"Alice," I said warningly. "I love you, so you might want to take your hand off me."

Yvette put two club sodas in front of us and went away.

Alice shook her head with disappointment as she withdrew her hand.

"What's this going to prove?" Alice demanded as she looked down at the glass.

I snorted. _Prove?_ I wasn't here to prove anything. I was here to pour out all my hate on everybody and everything, particularly that stupid little human girl-child.

I raised my glass and smiled: "Cheers!" I said with mock cheeriness.

And then downed the drink.

Alice watched me with wide-eyed shock, for I didn't fake-drink the beverage. I actually put it into my mouth and swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed. All of it.

I slammed the glass down on the bar. "One more, please!" I called out toward Yvette.

Alice's eyes were as big as saucers.

But that was nothing to the agony I was experiencing.

You see when you drink a Bloody Bella — I'm _not_ going to call it a 'Bloody Mary' — you have a digestive system that absorbs it.

I don't have a digestive system, not for human food. So you have to imagine drinking something you cannot digest, because that's what I just did. The citrus of the tomato juice was hydrochloric acid, burning my inside but refusing to eat away at them. The potato vodka (Yvette didn't skimp on me with one of those wheat vodka knock-offs so popular these days) was if someone forced open my mouth, rammed a funnel into my throat opening and poured battery acid in there. The tabasco sauce? Imagine the pepper cranked up in heat from three-alarm chili to three-hundred-alarm.

That's just the sensation of it going down my throat, but then it hit my stomach like a pile of rocks: mercury rocks, bubbling and gurgling there, absolutely refusing to go anywhere, sloshing around inside me, not painfully, as nothing can be painful for me if I choose to ignore the pain, but very, very uncomfortably.

Yvette replaced the empty glass with a full one.

"Thank you," I said to her retreating back, then raised the glass, smiling at Alice.

"Here's to Bella Swan," I toasted, then downed that drink in large gulps, slamming the glass onto the bar.

There was a bitter, sickening taste in my mouth, worse that the backwash of any animal blood I had ever experienced. I spit a bit into the glass, feeling very nauseous, and punctuated my toast with muttered: "Fucking bitch."

"Rosalie," Alice said, shaking her head, eyes narrowed with anger, "why?"

"Drink up, Alice," I looked down at her wussy club soda. "We have to keep up appearances, now, don't we?"

Alice began shaking her head again, so I repeated, "Don't … _fucking … we!"_

"Yvette!" I called brusquely, and when I had her attention, I raised my index finger and then pointed it down at my glass. _'One more'_ is what my gesture said.

Yvette looked over at Alice, as if checking with _her _for_ me?_ But before I could set everybody straight on who was in charge here, something … _lurched_ inside of me.

"Oh, God!" I said, and covered my mouth. I glanced around desperately, but it was Yvette's pointing finger that saved me.

The women's bathroom, thankfully, was not a single stall model, which would have been a surprise to me if I had time to care.

I didn't. I raced into the bathroom, found an empty stall, pulled my hair from my face and promptly and noisily regurgitated both Bloody Bellas.

It took a while — forever, in fact, and thank you for asking — and as my body violently rejected the thing it couldn't process, I thought at each spasm: _that's you, Bella Swan._ I heaved. _I'm vomiting up you!_ I shook. _I'd fucking drain you dry, and spit you right back out, you fucking nothing human._

I heaved once more, noisily, then turned and sat by the porcelain, reaching up to the handle, flushing down fucking Bella Swan to the sewer where she belongs.

"Fuck," I cursed. That hurt, and my body was in agony, trying and failing to absorb what it couldn't. That is, that it couldn't for the last seventy years.

The reminder for that? Fucking Bloody Bella Swan.

I pulled out some toilet paper and wiped my mouth. The paper came away red.

"Shit," I sighed. I threw the paper in the bowl and then spat a big, red ball of venom mixed with that tomato and alcohol drink and then spat a few more times until my mouth tasted less like pure acid and more like venom.

"I spit you out, Bella Swan!" I fumed as I spat.

But I knew my cursing was a lie.

I had had a whiff of that girl when she passed me between classes.

Spitting her out? Her scent was like … well, we now know she's Edward's singer, but I'm not all that sure she isn't mine, too. I mean: _God!_ She had this floral lavender and freesia scent that just so perfectly matched my honeysuckle and rose scent that I just _had_ to have her. When she passed me, her in her rain-smock, me in mine, I imagined she was gift-wrapped in Christmas colors, that was her skin, hiding the perfect present of her blood, and I was the little girl waking up so eagerly Christmas morning to rip off the wrapping to get to that gift I so craved.

Spit her out? I don't know how I kept walking from one school building to the other, or even maybe I didn't and just froze in my tracks. Good thing I'm a Hale, so tightly in command of my instincts, because my instincts were screaming at me to drink and to drink and to drink.

Stupid girl. Why does she have to be so incredibly and tantalizingly tempting on top of being so insightful?

Her fault. Her fault again for her siren's call. Fucking bitch never should have come to sunless Forks. She never should have been born.

I exited the stall and nearly bowled over a girl standing in front of my door. I tried to brush past her, but she wouldn't move.

_"What?"_ I snarled. It was either this or knock her over.

She started, but then reached inside of her purse and held up a card. "I don't know what the issue you have with your girlfriend, but you may want to call this number," she said, and handed me the card.

I hadn't realized I had spoken aloud what was so present to me.

I looked down at the card. It said, Isaac Schutzman, M.D., Psychiatrist and listed an address and phone number in Manhattan.

I shouted right in the girl's face: _"Bella Swan is NOT my girl friend!"_

I took the card and threw it in onto the girl's chest.

"And _thanks_ for the help," I hissed, and I reached out and very gently picked the girl up by her shoulders — _why does every brunette have to remind me of fucking Bella Swan! — _moved her aside and left the bathroom.

And 'what issue I have'? I don't have any fucking issue! _Edward_ has the issue. Well, he had tons of issues, one of them being that he was so conceited that he didn't realize what a pain in the ass he was being by putting us through all this trouble and exposing us all to risk. If Edward had simple been a good, non-interfering boy, then none of this would have happened and I wouldn't be getting offers of help from solicitous well-intentioned in-the-way humans.

I returned to Alice at the bar.

Alice looked at me with concern.

"What!" I demanded.

"Feel better now, Rosalie?" Alice asked carefully.

"Top of the line," I responded flippantly, then demanded: "where's my drink?"

I've heard a great way to take care of a wound is to rub salt into it.

Yvette came up to us. "I think you need to take a break for a while," she said politely, not looking directly at me. She slid my hundred dollar bill back toward me.

I looked down at the brand new bill, and I looked back up at Yvette.

_Nobody_ told me what I needed to do. Nobody. And what the Hell was with the world? Did somebody designate this National Pick-on-Rosalie Week and not inform me? Why couldn't I sulk in peace without all this meddling interference?

Yvette telling me what to do? She needed to die. Now. I slowly rose from my stool and started to reach across the bar.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

[1] Um. Whoa! So it can go either way here, girls, and, *whew* um, I was going to say something witty like: 'temper, temper, Rose,' but I'm not liking the thought of getting my head (literally) bitten off.

[2] Rosalie mentions to Bella that Bella is almost her singer or very much like it in my story "The Bells are Ringing," ch 1 "Laundry Wear" (and, hm, *whew* again, I think I'll dress up (dress "down"?) like that the next time I do laundry).


	4. Chillax

**Chapter Summary: **Alice just had to put me on the cover of this month's _Vogue,_ didn't she?

* * *

Do you know vampires sometimes kill by 'mistake'? Happens all the time. Emmett told me that years ago he was walking by a house and a woman was hanging her laundry, and suddenly he was overpowered by the scent of apples and cinnamon and the next thing you know …

And then there's Jasper.

Every ten years or so Emmett and I get married again … you know to keep up appearances when we move into a new area or when we're about to leave an area.

And then every ten years or so, Jasper comes home, eyes all red, and an urgent request that we change not only States (or Commonwealths if we're in Massachusetts or Virginia) but whole regions of the country.

_Why, yes, Jasper,_ I think sarcastically as we pack hurriedly like bedouins, _I've always wanted to give up San Francisco to live in a nowhere town like Chapel Hill, North Carolina … _or worse: _Forks, Washington! … do they have electricity there yet?_

All right! So the move to Forks wasn't forced. I was so relieved to be leaving Denali and the Succubi sisters, but when it was announced we were going to _where? Forks, Washington?_

It was simply incredible to me that Carlisle could think of moving us to a town smaller than Denali, but that Carlisle is just _full_ of … surprises.

I was going to say a different word than 'surprises.' But you can't be full of 'cluelessness' … _'Duh, yeah, Esme, let's move to Forks! Yuck-yuck-yuck!' … _Those of you who haven't yet figured out why you can't be 'full' of something that's lessening, see me after class.

You'll have to wait in line behind Bella Swan, however: she takes the cake.

Make we wish that I made a 'mistake' with her! _'Oh, sorry, everybody, I couldn't help myself but to kill her!'_

But that's a lie. That's all it is: a lie.

Vampires have humans beat it what? Strength? Speed? Smarts?

Sure, all of that comes so easily and naturally — instinctively, even — to us, but no: we beat humans, every single time, because of the force of our will. I mean, face it: we are animated statues: stone golems, and the only thing that animates us is the raw power that we have, at all times, from converting blood into pure energy.

What can contain all that power? The will. That is the only thing that boxes us in, that controls the unstoppable monsters each one of us are. If we didn't have that kind of continuous and continual indomitable spirit, it would have been game over from the get-go, for either vampires would have overrun the human population, killing indiscriminately, or humanity would have figured a way to fight back against these ravenous monsters, eradicating every last one of us centuries ago.

Sure, Jasper can say, "We have to move now!" and my response to him is: "Whatever!"

Sure, Emmett can say, "I couldn't help myself" and my response to him is to help him disappear the evidence.

And that's fine for them. They can justify all they want.

But it's just a justification.

A vampire has indomitable will. A vampire does what a vampire chooses to do and does not do from the full faculty of the will.

Take Carlisle. Never killed a human. Not once.

Take Edward. His singer's call is so strong that she and he appear as one being, one entity, their scents are so perfectly matched. For Edward not to drink her is for Edward to deny himself: it's like you choosing not to breath, after just coming from a few minutes in a vacuum chamber. You choosing not to breath for a few weeks, that is.

'Impossible!' you say? Vampires can do that. Why? The will.

_Vampires never, ever, make a mistake._

We do what we do, because we choose to do it.

So when I reached out to Yvette, it was to murder her, just as I had murdered those scum who were masquerading as my fiance and his friends.

Because why? Because I choose this, right now. You cross me, you slight me, you pity me, you die.

_Do you hear me, Bella Swan? This is what I'm going to do to you! First I'll murder the girl who looks a little bit like you, then I'm coming for you!_

And no _fucking_ Edward Cullen is going to stop me, either, with his consensus-building tactics notwithstanding!

But, wait! I murdered Royce and the others who raped me, and the punishment fit the crime. I made sure of that. Calling Royce a 'dickless wonder' was actually accurate for the last few minutes of his over-extended life.

But this girl had done me no wrong, other than piss me off, which just by her existing was unavoidable. Would I kill her because I was venting my anger on an innocent?

In that moment of hesitation, a tiny hand rested on my shoulder and inexorably pushed me back onto my stool.

"Rose," Alice said gently, "take a breather for a while, … chillax."

I was all prepared to twist Alice's arm right off and use it as a club to visit serious damage to the bar, but Alice's last word brought me rather abruptly out of my fury, anger and internal struggle.

"'Chillax'?" I huffed in disbelief.

"Yeah," Alice smiled, pleased, "its meaning is an amalgamation of 'chill out' and 'rel-…'"

_"I gathered the meaning, Alice!"_ I shouted, drawing looks, so I lowered my voice considerably, not because I gave a damn what anybody else thought, but because I don't need the approbation nor the censure of the rabble to carry my point. "What I'm appalled at is that you're using this oh-so-trendy modern derivative word … and derivative of what? Eras from before the children these days were born! _'Chill out'?_ Please, Alice! _Bella_ and all her _friendies_ weren't even in diapers yet when that phrase had passed the annoyingly overused stage! Even 'relax' was a popular song before their time, but no! Oh, they are oh-so-clever in their oh-so-cool use of phrases they borrowed and stole claiming as their own and what is their claim? Besides ignorance?"

"This is not chillaxing, Rosalie," Alice said scoldingly.

"I'm not in the mood to 'chillax,' Alice," I shot right back.

"Why? Is it that time of the month?" Alice shot right back.

If I could turn whiter, I would have.

I turned away from Alice and swallowed the pain.

"Low blow, Alice." I murmured. "Very low blow."

Alice knew, as well as the rest of them, that if I could, I would trade anything to be human again. Saying that I was in a bad mood because of PMS wasn't an insult: it was a slap to the face. I don't have the mood swings, yes, but I also don't have the ability to have a child, a family.

My only hope, forever dashed, and this sameness an eternal reminder of my loss.

Alice's response was apologetic. "I had to say something to snap you out of your tirade; they were going to throw us out, you know."

"So?" I challenged. "Let them."

The two Emmett-sized bouncers with muscles bulging out of everywhere probably felt that they could take us, tiny little Alice and me, the blond in the Jimmy Choo Quantum sandals and the black Rachel Palley long sleeveless caftan (yes, you can say it: Damn, do I look fine!). But then they would get the (final) surprise of their lives if they tried to lay a finger on me.

It would be possible for them to register that I was actually showing them what they ate from their eviscerated digestive track before they succumbed to the shock.

"Yeah," Alice said regretfully, "that would have been your response. I mean, that was, um, is your response, but when they came for us and you … well, we don't need headlines, right?"

"Like there are back in fucking Forks?" I snarled.

"Like back in fucking Forks," Alice agreed levelly.

"Well, finally somebody's come to her senses," I snapped back.

"Too bad it isn't you," Alice said regretfully.

"Alice," I snarled, "what the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about," Alice answered quietly but intensely, "is that you've been all pissy since Edward saved Bella. Rosalie, what's _your_ fucking problem?"

"Now you're calling her by name, too, Alice," I said regretfully. "We don't call any of them by name. We're va-…" I stopped myself. I didn't need to look around; I knew the rule.

"Look," I said to Alice, "she has her kind, and we've ours and _never the twain shall meet!_ But here you all are, instantly chummy with this — God, Alice, what the fuck is she anyway? — okay, let's say girl, just for argument's sake. She's just this nobody nothing, Alice, not worth making a big scene like Edward did and _definitely_ not worth putting all of us at risk. She's just like all the other times and should be handled the same way."

Alice was quiet for a moment. She took a slow 'slip' of her club soda, then returned the glass to the bar. There was as much soda in the glass as when she picked it up … except for the little bit she surreptitiously spilled on the floor.

"If she's no different than the others," Alice put forward in cautious tones, "why are you reacting so strongly, Rosalie? And why are you recommending such extreme measures? Other times when somebody suspected, we simply left, we didn't kill the person."

"No, Alice, she _knows!" _I spat.

"How do you know?" Alice asked reasonably.

"Oh, _come on!"_ I snarled.

Alice looked at me levelly. "Yeah," Alice was just so good to adjusting to any era, using their words, because she had no era anchoring her to her past, "come on, Rosalie. I mean, really! Has she said anything? She's been back at school, and what's come out of her return?"

"But she _saw, _Alice. You saw the look in her eyes when they carted her into the ambulance, she was looking at all of us, and she saw our reactions, our _unmasked_ reactions. And then, in the hospital? You don't have conversations like that. Ever. But she just has to have a little heart-to-heart with Edward, now, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," Alice responded, "she's really smart … and observant."

Alice said this as if she were _pleased_ with the little brown mouse of a girl.

"'Yeah,'" I mimicked Alice's ease with the modern prosody, "Everybody loves that new girl Bella Swan. How many marriage proposals did she get that first day in the school cafeteria? And then, why stop there? She just had to set her cap at the _Great Edward Cullen,_ didn't she? And, oh-my-goodness, didn't that just send Edward tripping over himself to prostrate himself at her feet! _'Here, Bella, let me move this van for you! Can I hold your hand?'_" I shook my head, and continued: "Boy, Edward could barely hide his drool, could he, as he salivated all over her? _'Oh, she's so mysterious, and such a sweet singer, so different than all those others how threw themselves at me and mean nothing to me!'"_

Alice gave me an odd look. She took another fake sip.

"So that's it?" Alice asked.

"So what's what?" I demanded irritatedly.

"You know, Rosalie," Alice grimaced, but I don't think it was from the taste of the club soda, "jealousy is such an ugly emotion."

I snorted. "Alice, please. Me, jealous of that little thing? Look, I am so over Edward and his supercilious attitude. I'd be happy for them except for one minor fucking detail…"

Yvette approached us. "Excuse me," she said regretfully, "could I see some i.d. from you two, please?"

Alice and I passed our i.d.s — our fake i.d.s — to Yvette. Alice liked to assume different names and persona for her different i.d.s.

Me, I'm always Rosalie Lillian Hale. That's who I am. I just have different places where I live. With, over the years, different birthdates. When I'm in Forks, I'm from Alaska and eighteen years old. Here, I'm Rosalie Hale from Rochester, again, and twenty-two years of age.

Yvette looked at my i.d. and then at me. "Thank you," she said, passing back my i.d. to me.

She looked at Alice's.

She paused, her eyebrows creasing.

"You're C.J. Rae?" Yvette asked hesitantly.

"Yup," Alice said cheerily.

"The fashion designer?" Yvette confirmed.

Alice smiled at her.

"Featured in this month's _Vogue?"_ Yvette seemed to need to put this all together in her mind.

Alice was pleased as punch. You could tell because she became demure. "Well," she said, "it wasn't a big cover, there was just … what, Rosalie, two pages?"

"Four pages, Alice," I 'sipped' my club soda, "And you were featured on the cover."

Yvette's eyebrows pursed. "No," she said, "the girl on the front didn't look like her at all, she looked like …"

Yvette looked at me a second, then she looked at something under the bar counter top.

"Um," she said.

I smiled at her. "But it did say 'C.J. Rae's Spring Fashion' as the byline."

"Um," was all that Yvette could manage.

Actually she could manage a bit more. She pulled a magazine from under the bar and placed it between us.

There I was, in all my glory, a close-up on my face, with just the collar of a shirt designed by 'C.J. Rae' modeling the hottest trend in Spring fashion.

I hated the picture. And it just had to be plastered everywhere, and it didn't look a thing like me. Well, it didn't look a thing like I look like now. It looked exactly like I looked like seventy years ago. I had in ice blue contacts and … _and_ the bastards made me wear blush.

Can you believe it? Back in the thirties, it was considered impolite — wanton, even — to be seen blushing, so proper young ladies painted their faces pale. So then, I looked like me now. But now-a-days they want to see a little color, a little innocence, a little humanity: none of which I had anymore. So me, on that _Vogue_ cover? I looked like I looked in my early life, before I was raped and murdered and turned into this monster.

It was a travesty. The picture looking out at me, that distant girl with the steel blue eyes and blush on her cheeks, it mocked me, showing the person I could never again be.

It was a huge hit. You should have seen the outflowing of appreciation from the _Vogue_ executive staff. Apparently the sales figures and circulation exceeded expectations.

"Um," Yvette said again, "I'm not supposed to do this, but, could I have your autograph? And it's okay if you don't want to, but …"

I sighed. "Which one did you want an autograph from, me or the famous fashion designer C.J. Rae?"

Alice simpered. "I'm not all that famous, Rose!" And she tapped my shoulder affectionately.

I smirked over at Alice. _'Not famous'_ meaning her début making a mention and model on the cover of _Vogue?_ But Alice had years working the scene from behind the lines, to guarantee a rather splashy début.

"Actually," Yvette stuttered, "Either of you, or both, or …"

I smiled at the human. "Could I use your pen?"

"Huh? Oh!" Yvette pulled a pen from her vest pocket and handed to me.

I was very careful to gasp only the pen, and not her hand. I signed my name and passed the pen and the magazine to Alice.

"And I'm really sorry about carding you two," Yvette apologized, "but you were taking about a 'school cafeteria' so, you know …"

"You were just doing your job," Alice said as she signed, "no need to apologize for that, right, Rosalie?"

"Yes," I answered coldly, "at least she's doing her job!"

Alice sniggered at me. Nothing I could say now would bring her down from her trippy euphoria.

"Here ya go!" Alice enthused, handing Yvette the magazine.

It was signed 'C.J. "Alice" Rae.'

"Wow!" Yvette breathed. "Thank you."

"Yvette," I said.

She looked over at me. I picked up the one-hundred dollar bill still on the counter.

"I believe you left this," I said as I extended it to her.

Yvette shook her head. "I can't accept it, um, Ro-… Miss Hale."

"Yvette, it's 'Rosalie,'" I corrected her, "and too late, you already did, and I don't take back gifts I've given."

I put the bill into her vest pocket.

She looked embarrassed, "I … well, can you not ask for another drink tonight, okay, and no offense?"

"No offense taken," I said. "Besides, I've had enough Bloody Bellas …" then I glared significantly at Alice, "… for today anyway."

Alice rolled her eyes. "You know, Rosalie, I see a future where you and Bella are, like, really close."

I shook my head, smiling. "You know, you've said a lot of funny things, Alice, but that's one prediction that will _never_ come true."

As much as everybody else was in awe of Alice's predictive ability, I wasn't all that phased by my pixie sister. You see, I've been keeping a record of her utterances. Sure, she's been right, and sometimes astoundingly so, but her track record? More than half the time her predictions not only don't come true, but the eventual reality looks nothing like her dire (or, in this case, silly) forecasts.

Besides, I had nothing to worry about, really. If you look at my relationship with Alice, would you call it 'close'? Well, that's as close as I let anybody come to me, which is not at all. Being 'really close' to Bella Swan? That might happen if I have to get Edward's biology homework from his 'lab partner' when he's out 'sick' for some reason, but that's as close as I'd ever get to that little brown field mouse.

Alice giggled. "You wanna bet on that?"

"You're …" I began.

I was interrupted by the most egregious excuse for singing, more like caterwauling, coming from the girl who had been hogging the karaoke. At the first few notes a group of women from all over the bar grabbed their beers and crowded onto the dance floor, not jeering, but actually cheering.

Come to find, it was a good thing I was interrupted. I was going to say 'you're on' but a cardinal rule of the Cullen coven is this:

You don't bet against Alice.

* * *

**Chapter End Notes:**

[1] Good thing Rosalie didn't bet against Alice, because, ... oh, I don't know ... la-di-dah. It was also a good thing nobody noticed Yvette having Rosalie and Alice signing her copy of _Vogue, _eh? The Cullens do have to keep a low profile, after all, right?


End file.
